


Sunrise

by DownToTheSea



Category: Guns of the Dawn
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Epilogue, F/M, Fluff, Gratuitous Tropes Abound, Hurt/Comfort, Including A Lot of Austen Ones, PTSD, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownToTheSea/pseuds/DownToTheSea
Summary: The war is over for Emily, and life takes its place, with all its accompanying joys and struggles.





	Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> I got SUPER invested in Guns of the Dawn last week, as anyone who follows me on Tumblr might have seen, hahaha. (I stayed up until 2 AM finishing it and completely ruined my sleep schedule, and have zero regrets.) While I loved the ending, I wished a few things had been wrapped up more completely, and I wanted more Emily/Northway, so I decided to write it myself! I got a bit feverishly inspired this weekend and accomplished nothing but this fic, but I had loads of fun so I'm counting it as a successful weekend.
> 
> I think this is the first time I've ever been the first/only fic poster for a fandom, haha. So I'm not sure if anyone will see this, but if you do then hello and I hope you enjoy it! (And please come scream at me on Tumblr about Emily and Northway.)
> 
> Please, please let me know if I screwed up anything related to the post-war trauma. And also if you spot any egregious grammar or continuity errors, because I wrote all of this while very sleep deprived.

_ Part I _

It was indeed a long walk back to Grammaine, made all the longer by the uncharacteristic silence that had fallen between them. It was not an uncomfortable silence, not precisely; uncertain would have been nearer the mark.  _ What follows that?  _ Northway had asked, and Emily was struck now by how well the question suited the entire situation. What would happen to her? Her war was over. That weight had lifted off her shoulders at last, but what would replace it? Tubal had gone back to his life. But what life  _ could  _ she go back to, now? Could she lose herself in the simple day-to-day rhythm of country life, when the memories still hung like a heavy curtain across her mind, and this restless energy crawled through her bones?

_ What now? _ And what of Mr. Northway? Her hated mortal enemy, her trusted confidante, her partner in treason? What was he now, to her?

Next to her, Northway groaned a little as he took a misstep that jarred his battered ribs. She noted, with some amusement, that he seemed not to take the slightest trouble to conceal his hurt from her. Some gentlemen would consider it a point of honour to fight down every natural impulse so as to not display pain or weakness, particularly in front of a lady. Not Mr. Northway, it seemed. Truthful as ever.

Of course, he could never be mistaken for an honourable gentleman, and for that matter, she supposed she hardly resembled a proper lady right now. Perhaps she never would again, at least not in the way she had before.

He had not spoken a single word to her since they left the king's camp, which had also once served as the camp of a king of thieves. Northway had killed one king; Emily the other. Of the two of them, Emily thought she had meted out the most justice.

She speculated that the expression on Northway’s face, behind the surface pain, had something to do with his silence. It was the rapturous look of a man who had discovered that, beyond all hope and reason, he had come through the long night and found light and life on the other side. Emily knew that expression; she was wearing it herself. (What a pair they were, she reflected, to walk away from her act of treason and regicide and be so uplifted!)

She was supporting him by the time they reached Grammaine, one arm tucked under his and about his shoulders. Once again she became aware that they were nearly of a height, and was glad of it; she had heaved larger and heavier men than he to their feet and dragged them along through an endless morass, and this was far easier to manage. After they had danced at Deerlings, she had certainly not imagined this to be the next encounter of this nearness. It seemed an age ago now, and the both of them were so far removed from the people they had been at that glittering ball. The war had reached its jagged claws into her and pulled out parts of Emily she had not even known existed, and shoved others down where she might never find them again, and polished her all to a hard edge, like a honed blade. Northway's masks had been shattered, his humanity dragged out into plain sight, raw and tender and uncertain.

Sunrise was creeping over him now, casting the illusion of a little colour on his cheeks, and easing the unhealthy contrast of his usual pallor and the new bruises sprawling over his face. Those were something she could sympathize with, at any rate. Come tomorrow, it was doubtful he would even be able to move this much.

The sun was a half-disc of blazing golden red by the time they finally reached Grammaine, throwing beams of light through the morning fog across the fields and warming the cold air. For some reason, Emily was reminded of another sunrise, another morning when she had felt reborn. But this was different; that sun had risen across a beautiful but unearthly world, where she was only a visitor and could never be anything more, nor wanted to be. This place… This was her home. And she had saved it.

Breathing in slowly and deeply despite the chill in the air, Emily let go of Northway long enough to unlatch the gate and close it behind them before taking his arm and slinging it round her shoulders again.

“Not much farther,” she murmured, because one of them had to break the silence eventually, and judging from Mr. Northway's ongoing wheezing beside her, it would not be him.

He only nodded, lacking the breath to speak, as they came up near the stables. Emily paused here. Tubal and Brocky would be waiting up for her. It would already be difficult enough to come up with a plausible lie for the events of last night, without having to explain Mr. Northway's presence as well. Still, she hesitated to send him on to Chalcaster alone. He would not die from his injuries, but she had seen herself he could hardly breathe, let alone move. While it was not a long ride, it was not a short one either, and there was likely no one along the way who did not have ill will of one kind or another towards him.

Before she could come up with an alternative idea, she saw movement from the stables.

Instantly her pistol was out and pointed ahead. She had reloaded on the way back, mindful of the thieves that had scattered into the night who might find their courage after all and decide to come back for a consolation prize.

But it was only Grant, stepping out from the shadow of the stable with her father's blunderbuss and looking more sharply alert than Alice would ever imagine possible at this hour of the morning. His eyes slid from her and her bright uniform and her distinct lack of the horse she had left with, to Northway and the purple bruises covering him, the way he held one arm across his ribs stiffly.

“Horse thieves, eh?” he asked, and Emily felt the tension drain from her shoulders.

“Yes,” she said, truthfully.

Grant never asked her for any more details about what she had done that night. Sometimes she wondered if he guessed the truth, but events had spiraled so wildly that, even having been present herself, she still found it difficult to believe on occasion. At any rate, she knew her secrets were safe with him. He would never breathe a word. She smiled at him, trying to convey that everything was all right, that it was going to be all right, and was shocked to discover that she believed it too.

“Glad you're all right, ma'am,” he said.

Emily nodded gratefully, and made her decision. “Grant, please saddle a horse for – for Mr. Northway. His was stolen.” She thought that was likely, at least. She found it difficult to imagine Northway making the long trek out to the camp on foot.

Grant's eyes narrowed, and he looked Northway up and down appraisingly. Emily was not certain whether to be flattered or insulted that he seemed to put just as much weight into considering whether Northway was worthy of one of his horses, as whether he was worthy of Emily herself.

“I am certain he will bring it back safely as soon as he is able to procure a new one,” she added.

“Yes, I have brought quite enough of Miss Marshwic’s wrath down upon myself for the time being,” Northway put in, voice just as acidic as always and the hopeful expression from earlier buried down deep.

At last Grant busied himself readying a dependable chestnut mare, and Emily managed to inconspicuously draw Northway some distance away. “You will be careful between here and Chalcaster,” she said firmly, making it an order instead of a question or a hope. “You know as well as I that there are yet those who would consider you a traitor to the crown and worse, for surrendering to Denland. I have not – ” She became aware of Grant's steady eyes on her back, and lowered her voice. “I have not gone such lengths tonight to keep you from harm, only for you to be attacked on the road the instant you quit my presence.”

“Never fear, Miss Marshwic. If more thieves should fall upon me, I shall turn tail and run as fast as ever I can. I am not a foolhardy young hero like certain others of your acquaintance.” And while he was just as mocking as ever, beneath his words Emily discerned another truth: that if she wished to go to that foolhardy young hero Giles Scavian upon his release, Mr. Northway would not stand between them. If she merely wished to forget any reckless words spoken in the aftermath of what she had done last night, then he would never mention them again. He would let her go.

He looked at her now, almost challenging her.  _ This is what I am,  _ his sharp eyes seemed to say.  _ You can still choose another path, if you will.  _ And underneath, a vast, unspeakable terror that she would do just that.

“Mr. Northway, you have no need to remind me what an abominable coward you are.” She even managed to summon up the combative tone from all their earlier skirmishes, although she could not recall bursting into his office to lambast him for his latest scheme with quite such genuine good humor. “I know you well enough by now, I should think.”

She held his eyes with her own. Shielding the motion from Grant with her own body, she took his hand and pressed it, just as she had at the train station the morning of her departure. _ I accept you. As you likewise accept me. I have set my course ahead, and I will not turn back now. _

Upon being insulted to one’s face, a person's first reaction was not usually to smile as delightedly as though the entire world had lit up with immeasurable beauty, yet that was how he smiled at her now, and it was still in his eyes even as he turned away from her and back into Chalcaster.

 

As Northway had predicted, the Denlanders released Giles Scavian the very next morning: with, it seemed to Emily, an immense collective sigh of relief. Along with Tubal and Brocky, she met him as he stumbled out of his prison. There was a strange, adrift look in his eyes. He had lost his King and his power, and gained his life, all in the space of a few minutes.

Both Mr. Northway and the provost had hinted that it would be best if he left Chalcaster as soon as possible, in case there were any rebel sympathizers with enough fight left in them to do something about it. So Scavian had one scant day at Grammaine before being bundled off on the first train the next morning. (Alice was  _ very  _ impressed and told Emily afterwards that  _ she  _ would have volunteered if she had known there were such fine young men at the front. Emily gritted her teeth. The only thing that restrained the sharp words which threatened to spill from her lips was the knowledge that Alice could not know, could never know, and had not meant to thrust the knife so deep. Later that day, she discovered an excuse to ride into Chalcaster and find herself at the mayor-governor's office.)

Brocky had clearly extended a wing to Giles while he tried to regain his equilibrium in a world turned upside down, and had been overheard enthusiastically offering him a position as a dispenser's assistant. He was in his element, planning his new business(es), and it hadn't taken too sharp an eye to notice his new and substantially better-tailored suit: payment for certain services, it seemed, had already been rendered by Mr. Northway.

For Emily's part, although Scavian had looked at her almost like a saviour angel that first morning, barriers stood between them now that she could not and would not cross.

The first, of course, was what she had told Northway: she had killed his king, and although he would never know what she had done, it would not feel right to allow their relationship to continue as it had done, accepting affection from him as though nothing had changed.

The second, however, she did not tell anyone for a long time. (And when she did, it was, as always, within the sanctuary of the mayor-governor’s office.) When she pulled the trigger, in that moment she had written to Northway about, the split second that lasted an eternity – she had had that long moment to consider her reasons for firing. All she wanted – everything she cared for, in that moment – was to save her people, and to save Cristan Northway. She had not even thought about Scavian until after the fact. More than anything, it had been a happy coincidence that her actions had saved him too. Now she could not quite look at him without feeling guilt over that thoughtlessness, or without the continuing knowledge that his affections were not matched in kind or strength by hers.

Even so, with those invisible walls between them, she hugged him just as tightly at the train station as she hugged John Brocky. After all, the bonds of friendship forged on the Levant front in their Survivors’ Club might bend or waver, but they would never break.

 

Her hair was beginning to grow back. It was past chin-length now, in the back where it was longest, and curled in an unwieldy way towards the sides where it had been shortest. Alice had informed her that when it grew out just a little more, she could style it into some new cut which was apparently all the rage. Emily realized that it must have come about because of all the women coming back from the war with short hair. When she thought about the noblewomen whom Alice watched religiously for fashion tips, shearing their hair in a mockery, in a pale and painless imitation of what they had forced their servants to endure, she felt a cold wave of illness and rage roll over her.

For a little while she was determined to cut all her hair off again out of sheer spite. However, after her anger cooled, she decided not to. She allowed it to grow, until at last it had become something she felt comfortable with herself in. A short, simple style: not the brutally shaven cut that had been forced on her in the army, but not the long, heavy locks of before. She was a new creature, this Emily Marshwic.

 

“Emily. I am glad to see you looking well,” Mr. Northway said one day soon after, as she entered his office.

She nodded to him in greeting and sat down in her usual chair. This one had replaced the much less comfortable chair she usually sat in roughly two months ago, and had been tugged into a more convenient position so that she would not have to lean quite so far forward to get near his desk.

“Likewise,” she said, and it was true. Cristan Northway would never be a handsome man, but over the last few months, a bit of rosy flush had finally come into his deathly pale face, and his eyes were brighter in a way that no one could take for craftiness no matter how much they despised him. The thin mouth was no longer set in its stony rictus of an empty smile, and occasionally quirked in a touch of humor and warmth.

(Both her sisters had noticed the change in him, although astonishingly only Alice came near guessing the truth behind it, though in her usual manner. “You must stop going into Chalcaster to argue with him, Emily,” she fretted. “He is enjoying it far too much. I cannot but think you have put up a poor showing recently, for him to be looking so pleased with himself. Ugh, the foul man!”

Emily had hidden a smile, even as it came with a stab of regret that she could not share the truth with her sisters, at least not yet. Not for a long time. “I am afraid I cannot, Alice. I rather enjoy it myself,” she had contented herself with saying mildly.)

“A compliment, Miss Marshwic? From you? Is fire raining from the sky onto our town?” He said that often, now:  _ our town,  _ as if he and Emily were its sworn guardians. In a way, she supposed they were.

“You would not know otherwise, as I have had it on good authority you have been shut up in this building for the last five days.”

Northway waved a hand at the considerable stack of papers on his desk. “The duties of my office have not lessened since the cessation of hostilities, as you know, Emily. If anything, they have only grown.” He frowned slightly. Emily thought that it had almost been easier for him during the war, when he had scraped and schemed and pushed at the very limits of the law to keep this place alive. Yet now, when they needed more than just surviving; growth,  _ healing,  _ he was at a loss.

She braced herself, for this could very well reopen a wound that had not fully sealed for either of them. But she asked the question directly, bluntly even, as she knew they both preferred. “Do you need help?”

The hard-won colour drained out of his cheeks as he lifted his gaze to hers. For a moment, the spectre of her brother wavered between them, and Emily nearly shut her eyes against it. At last he found his voice, though it emerged as a breathless croak.

“A position here, in truth?”

That brought a touch of dry humor to her. For all that it had been Scavian's turn of phrase, she knew of the two of them, fewer lies stood between her and Northway.

“Yes. A genuine one, not whatever trivialities you would have drummed up before.”  _ Should have drummed up, for Rodric,  _ crossed her mind, and she could see the same thought behind his eyes.

He swallowed, leaning back to press his fingertips together and consider her proposal. “I… I do not know, Emily. I am afraid my funding has had rather a more watchful eye kept on it of late, and I cannot go adding people to my staff quite so freely.”

“You have been forced to conduct business honestly, now that we are under the hand of Denland?” she asked with a twitch of her lips, momentarily distracted.

“Yes, alas,” he said, his face relaxing as they settled into this old thread of conversation. “Do not worry, Miss Marshwic. I would not be myself if I had not some schemes in motion, after all, and I have managed quite satisfactorily. There is simply more oversight to dodge, and you are… difficult to overlook.”

She thought that was supposed to be a compliment. “Then do not attempt to hide me,” she said reasonably. “You are clearly in need of assistance; they cannot argue that. And who better to help you than the mutual hero of both sides?”

Her lips twisted bitterly after saying the words. It was not a title she had asked for, one she wanted in the slightest, nor even one she deserved. But it was hers, nonetheless, and if it would do her and her people some good, she saw no reason not to use it.

“I have a good head for strategy, or so I have been told,” she continued. “I know the land, and the people. I can work with the Denlanders. I could help, and I would like to do so.”

He considered her for a moment across his desk. “I agree with you. If I can, I will arrange it.”

His quick acquiescence surprised her. She had expected she would need to convince him that this was what she wanted instead of a quiet country retirement, that she  _ needed _ to do something, to take action. That the thought of helping with the process of rebuilding, instead of killing, sparked some deep and wild flame of hope in her. Perhaps he did know her better than she thought, even now.

Relieved and grateful, she leaned back. “Have I so thoroughly defeated you, Cristan, that you do not even put up a token argument?” she demanded, though with hidden mischief in her tone.

He looked up from the paper he was scribbling on and gave her the briefest flash of a smile. “Never. One question, Emily, if I may?”

At her inclined head, he continued. “You know that associating with me is not likely to do any favors for your public opinion.”

“To say the least,” Emily agreed, and he gave her a dry look.

“Thank you, Miss Marshwic. Right now, you are the people's glorious hero. Work with me, even with the best intentions, even if it is made clear that you are suffering through each moment of this partnership – ”

“Which would be untrue,” Emily interjected, and this time the look was grateful and almost soft.

“It would behoove you to have it put about that way, regardless. Some people will see it as a brave concession to your people. Others, however,  _ will  _ view it as a betrayal. It may bring trouble down on you, and I would not… I would not wish that.” His words were heavy with unspoken sentiment.

“Neither would I. Yet if trouble comes, Mr. Northway, I shall be prepared.” She was always prepared now, always on edge. Perhaps, she thought with dark humor, it might finally be of some use.

A sad smile touched his lips. “I know.”

A long, silent moment went by.

“And besides,” she added in a lighter tone. “I have been running out of excuses to visit you. Mary and Alice believe I have taken up the great cause of Mrs. Beckett's leaky roof with you this morning.”

His eyes glinted. “Oh?”

Emily did not think such a spirited debate as that which followed had ever before taken place over a leaky roof.

 

As expected, the news of her imminent employment with Northway was met with reactions from her family ranging from an understanding look (Tubal) to horrified disgust (Alice). Mary was somewhere in the middle, matching her husband's calm but clearly deeply unsettled.

Emily escaped the stares being leveled at her after a few hours, heading outside to go riding. “And what do you think, Grant?” she asked as he led out her horse. “I am sure Jenna has brought the news to you by now.”

“I think it's a good idea idea, ma'am,” he said unexpectedly. “It gets to be… heavy, especially out here away from town. I felt better once I'd settled on a purpose, and I expect you will, too.”

“Thank you,” said Emily, and meant it.

 

Some time later, she and Northway were in his office again. Inside, because Emily had tired already this week of the constant interruptions by people who wanted to talk to her when they went walking. Two days ago, one man had told her outright, in front of Mr. Northway, that if she wanted to avenge the murder of the king by those filthy Denlanders (Emily had had to choke back a morbid laugh at that), then he would follow her to the ends of the earth. Cristan had stepped in smoothly, playing his villainous part to perfection and calling his guards to put the man on his way, before Emily had needed to give an answer that the man wouldn't like. Still, the idea that such sentiments still existed, even in tiny, useless pockets, was unsettling, and she preferred to stay indoors for a while.

It was merely another visit, for an additional staff member had not yet been authorized for Chalcaster's civil government. However, Cristan assured her it was only a matter of time. Her wisdom and heroism could not be passed over, not when the price for honouring her was a mere bureaucratic position.

In the meantime, she had riding, and the business of the estate that Mary was not already managing, and playing cards with Tubal, and coming into town to visit Northway. For now, it would have to do.

This visit was slightly different from those previous, in that neither she nor Cristan were seated, him behind his desk and her opposite him. Instead, Emily had shoved her chair into a corner, risen and offered her hand, and had commenced teaching him to dance.

To dance  _ better,  _ she corrected herself. The theory was all there, but his execution still left much to be desired. She supposed there had not been an opportunity to practice during the war; her own skills in this area were quite rusty as well. It seemed doubtful that either of them would ever need to do so again. She did not know if she  _ could _ dance again, by herself; it seemed pointless in the extreme, now. But with him, at least, it was an amusing diversion, particularly since they were now practicing the new and supposedly scandalous waltz that Alice had been swooning over for the past several weeks. All under the cover of Emily worrying away at his defenses on a point of public funding, of course.

“Look up,” she told him.

“If I look up, Emily,” he said through gritted teeth, still staring resolutely downwards, “then I shall step on your feet.”

“I can assure you that my feet have suffered worse.”

That got him to look up, although his cold fingers tightened on hers to steady himself.

“Now, about the new tax rate,” she began, and he coughed a laugh.

“You never do give up, Emily. It is one of your most admirable qualities.”

“Is that so? I was under the impression that you were most enchanted by my willingness to rain open wrath upon you.”

“Enchanted,” he mused, and missed a step before righting himself and smiling at her. “Yes, that will do nicely.”

Emily was beginning to see why Alice was so enraptured by this dance. There was something terribly intimate about it, something she had not felt in any previous dance, nor even, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, when she had been with Giles Scavian. She felt herself being drawn into Cristan's dark eyes, and found that she did not much care to break away.

“If you mean to flatter me into dropping the subject, you know that you will not succeed,” she told him anyway.

“I have said nothing that is not true,” he pointed out.

“You do enjoy telling me that.”

But she liked the reminders. Even if the rest of the world still felt alarmingly fragile, here was a place where she could say anything she wished, be as she was, the good and the bad together, and expect the same from him.

And as his cool lips touched hers, with a tenderness she had not thought him capable of two years ago, Emily closed her eyes, and allowed herself for one moment to feel safe.

 

Rain lashed down in thick, impenetrable sheets, though it did not touch Emily save for the tips of her shoes thanks to the wide black umbrella she held over herself and Alice. Mary and Tubal stood next to them, with Francis clinging to his mother. Mr. Northway was directly across from their group, and Emily managed to meet his eyes a few times, but it was difficult to see much of him with the rain masking everything that wasn’t within arm’s reach. Besides, on this one occasion, she thought he might have been avoiding her.

The weather seemed appropriate for it; the last chisel strike on the heavy stone column which held the names of every man and woman from Chalcaster and the surrounding area who had died in the war. Rodric's name was on it, nearly in the exact center. Whenever she looked at it, even now, she felt an echo of the old pain and disorientation. His name should  _ not  _ be there. None of them should.

All of the families who had lost someone were there, which meant practically that nearly every member of the population was present. Mr. Northway had asked Emily and Tubal both to speak, as they were the highest ranking officers who had even slight roots in the area now that Colonel Deerling was dead. Though it had been a mere formality in Emily's case; he knew she would not want to do it, but he had wanted the final choice to be hers. Tubal had declined as well, which left Northway to either speak himself or ask a lower ranking officer to do so. He had elected the latter, telling Emily with a wry twist of his lips that he might be a damnable villain, but even he would not go so far as to stand there and expound upon the horrors of war, he who had never even seen a single battle.

So a master sergeant from the Couchant front whom Emily had never met was giving the speech. She did an admirable job; even Emily's eyes, perpetually dry of late, were misting over by the time she was done. Yet she still felt detached, somehow. Out of place. As if all these people's misery, all the losses of war, did not belong in her Chalcaster. They belonged at Levant, in the sweltering swamps, and Emily was not quite certain where she was, all that day and the days after, no matter how the chilly rain pelted down.

 

The swarm was unstoppable, the Denland insects crawling over her and biting at her until she could not speak, could not even breathe. They were joined by the spider-creatures from the swamp, their heavy legs like a vise around Emily's chest and ribs. Pain stabbed through her, and she wondered distantly if she had taken a bullet. All around her were the screams of dying men and women, the smell of gunpowder and blood and the stink of the swamp, its overwhelming heat pressing down on them all with a physical presence.

_ No,  _ Emily thought desperately.  _ This cannot be real. I cannot be here. _

The war was over. Wasn't it?

Perhaps her homecoming had been the dream. Perhaps the cool fields and forests of Grammaine were out of her grasp forever. Her work in Chalcaster, her home, her family, Cristan… None of it was real.

She could never leave, she realized with a surge of horror. The world itself seemed to have dropped away from her, leaving only this place and nothing beyond it.

She was trapped here forever.

She could never escape.

She would never – 

 

“Emily.” It was the biting voice of Cristan Northway, suffused with worry, and there was his cool hand on hers. “Emily.”

Hearing him say her name slowed her frenetically beating heart a degree, the sheer panic from a moment ago dissipating into a confused swirl of conflicting emotions. Gradually, she came to her senses.

The spider on her chest was not a spider at all, but the hard surface of her desk, where she had fallen asleep. The edge of it was cutting painfully into her ribs as she slumped over it, but there was no bullet wound. The overpowering heat of the swamp was nothing more than her overheated face pressed into her arms. There were no insects. The only Denlander present was a clerk in the other wing, a kindly man with two children he had not seen in months because he refused to bring them into a hostile country.

“Cristan,” she mumbled. Her voice shook, yet tears still refused to build in her eyes. Part of her – most of her – believed she had to be ready for battle. Tomorrow, the fading echo of her dream supplied. There would be another Big Push, she heard the colonel say in her mind. This time it would make a  _ difference.  _ She had to be ready. She had to go back. At that thought she stiffened and recoiled from Northway, tremors seizing her body.

“Emily, please.” He had dropped to one knee beside her chair and looked at her now with a pained, helpless expression.

“I – I – ” Her own voice seemed nothing more than a gargle, strange to her ears. Why wasn't she in uniform? Why was her hair so long? The only thing she could think to say to him was, “Did you come to take me home?”

She had asked him to, she remembered that much. Although, she could not now remember if she had sent that letter, or when…

“No,” he said, choking on the word. “No, Emily, I did not. For that, I am more sorry than I can say. But you are home now, nevertheless.”

He offered both hands to her, and she took them without thinking, letting his cool touch leech away the heat of the swamps.

She almost thought he could have been weeping. It seemed fitting that he should, since she did not seem capable of it anymore. “You are home, and you will never have to go back.”

A glimmer of hope flickered somewhere in her chest, for if he had spoken the words to her, then they must be true.

He led her to his office, and on the way Emily managed to fight her way back to the present and remember what had truly happened, how much time had passed since she had been on the front. Northway sat her down in her chair, pushed a drink into one hand, and took the other in both of his again. The familiar surroundings chased away whatever remnants of the dream were left, and Emily took in a shuddering breath.

“You have rejoined me in the here and now, Emily?” he asked, searching her face with concern.

She nodded, sipping from the glass. Or trying to, since her hand still trembled so hard she could barely keep the liquid from sloshing out. Northway put one hand on the other side of the glass, fingertips brushing hers, and steadied it.

“I am sorry – ” she began, but he interrupted her with a shake of his head.

“Please do not apologize.”

Her throat felt thick with sleep and suppressed emotion. “What time is it?” Fear leaped into her again, although it seemed a small and petty thing compared to her terror from only minutes ago. What if she had slept past her usual time? She would have to leave him, leave the safety of this office, and face the journey back to Grammaine by herself in the dark, with a host of demons in her mind.

He glanced at the clock in the corner. “Not quite noon.”

Relief made Emily's shoulders sag.

“I had not known you were accustomed to taking mid-morning naps, Miss Marshwic. Have I been driving you too hard?”

She shook her head, too foggy to reciprocate the feeble attempt at humor. “No. I have been…” She trailed off, not quite sure how to explain the malaise that had come over her in the last few days. Ever since the monument dedication had jarred her out of the world somehow.

There was silence for a short time, as she got her breath back, before he spoke again. “Emily…” His hand was still clasping hers, and one finger ran absently along the edge of her palm. “I am sorry that I could not – that I did not – ”

“I forgive you.” She wasn't sure if either of them knew exactly what they were referring to, but the tension in him relaxed, and a weight lifted from the back of her mind.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. Northway watched her with an expression of pure wonder, his fingers curling into hers. On impulse, she tugged him closer and put her arms about him, pressing her face into his plain black coat.

She had stunned him; it must have taken him nearly a full minute to register that she was abruptly in his arms, and to wind his around her in return.

Was this what Grant had been talking about, before she left for the front? The dreams and the fear, this sense of living in a waking dream herself, the numb restlessness. He had assured her it would ease with time. She clung to that, just as she clung to Northway.  _ It would get better.  _ She had endured the war itself. She could endure this, too.

Gently, Northway kissed the side of her head. “I am always here, Emily, if you should have need of me.”

She did not need to reply. She only accepted his offer, holding tightly to him while she fought the crawling ghosts in her mind to ground herself in the world once more.

 

_ Part II _

Later, Emily could not understand why she had not woken. Wasn't that what was supposed to happen, when one suffered such a loss?

Instead, she awoke at dawn as always. Normality had been warped since the war, but if anything should have been counted as normal, even good, it was this morning. She went downstairs, said good morning to Tubal, and took a long walk around the Grammaine grounds in the soft morning light. There were birds singing, and a fine smell of flowers and blooming fruit trees in the air, and she found herself smiling. There was, however, a thick, angry bundle of clouds on the horizon, and Emily could not tell if they would disperse before reaching her or not.

“Do you think it will rain later, Grant?” she inquired as she came back round to the house and saw him out walking a few of the horses.

He looked up at the sky. “Most likely, ma'am. I'd say you have a few hours, if you want to make it into Chalcaster before the storm hits.” This was said with a hint of knowing sparkle in his eye. Alone among the entire household, Grant knew that there had been a hidden reason for her visits to the mayor-governor's office, and that a fulfilling job was not the only thing awaiting her in Chalcaster now.

Emily smiled back at him. “Then I believe I can make it without any trouble.”

She went back into the house, seeking out a heavier coat in case of rain and heading into the kitchen when she smelled muffins baking.

Alice must have decided to rise early today, for some reason. She hurried past just as Emily reached the kitchen table.

“I am not used to seeing you at this hour,” she remarked drily.

“Oh, it has been the most exciting morning, Emily!” she exclaimed, plucking a muffin out of Cook's surprised hands and shoving a bite of it into her mouth in a fashion that was decidedly not in vogue. “You would not believe what has happened!”

Emily frowned. What could have happened in the few hours she had been outdoors? To have gotten Alice out of bed, no less? An uneasy feeling crept over her. The only thing she could liken it to was the instinct she had developed on the battlefield that informed her when she was being watched, when the enemy was near. When disaster was on the horizon.

“What has happened, Alice?” she asked carefully.

“We received the most marvelous news – ”

Mary came into the kitchen then, cutting Alice off. Emily's frustration mounted.

“Surely you are not pestering Emily with this before she has even breakfasted, Alice,” she said with a mild disapproving look. “I am certain she has more important things to think about besides that terrible man, and certainly more pleasant ones.”

Emily's heart jumped into beating twice as fast. There was only one person her gentler sister held in such disdain, and any news concerning him that Alice would be pleased about did not bode well for the man in question. “Does this concern Cr – Mr. Northway?”

“See, you have done it,” said Mary. “Now we shall all be thinking of him before we eat, which can hardly be described as a pleasant experience.”

“What about him?” Emily tried to tamp down the anger in her voice, but it came out tauter than a bow string.

Both women looked at her in surprise. Then Mary sighed. “Well, I suppose you may as well hear it now. The messenger from the mayor-governor's office did say the news was for you, at any rate.”

Alice jumped in before she had even finished speaking. “Emily, it is the most wondrous thing! After all he has done to us, after all his terrible deeds. There is justice in this world after all,” she said with a pompous air that indicated she was quoting someone else, likely Mary.

_ “What happened?”  _ Emily did not even recognize her own voice. Alice visibly started, then rallied and continued.

“Why, he is dead, of course! The miserable man was set upon by bandits on the road last night, and by all accounts…”

Alice continued speaking, but Emily had not heard anything past that first terrible proclamation. Grey rushed in over her eyes. Her head spun; she might have fallen if she had not been clutching the table so hard. The edge bit into her hand, throbbing. Just like her desk in the governor’s office, weeks ago.  _ I am always here, Emily, if you should have need of me. _

He had  _ lied.  _ For the first time, and, she realized numbly, the last time. He would not be here for her, now or ever again.

There was something building in her chest, fighting to claw its way out of her; it might have been the howling scream of some trapped wild thing, which had finally won free of its cage only to suffer a mortal shot and fall back to earth. Emily did not dare to let it out. If she did, she would be lost. Her shoulders trembled with the strain of keeping it in.

Even Alice had noticed by this time that Emily was not reacting with the expected boundless joy.

“Emily, are you unwell?” Mary asked, concerned. Emily only shook her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth. Luckily, Mary immediately turned to remonstrate her other sister.

“Alice, we should not celebrate so. Regardless of the man's evils, he is dead now. He may have deserved no respect in life, but we owe him that little now, at least.”

“Perhaps he is only  _ dying _ now,” Alice said. “It would be just like him to hold out as long as he could, simply to vex us when he knows we all wish him dead. In that case, I can say whatever I please about him.”

A fresh shockwave rippled over Emily. Her free hand curled tight, her nails biting into her skin, and some of the wild force beating against her ribs came loose in a choked exhale. But she had been given a lifeline, and she seized it with both hands.

Mary was looking truly worried. “Emily, are you – ”

Emily ignored her. “Alice,” she gasped. “What did you say? Is there cause to believe he still lives?”

Alice's eyes narrowed curiously. “No one knows for certain. Mr. Staven up the road saw him from a distance, and he says the thieves came out from the trees and swarmed around his horse – before he could run away, the coward! Mr. Staven saw them beating him, but he ran to fetch the guards, so he could not say if he'd been killed or not.” More likely that he ran to save his own skin, Emily thought bitterly. Even for those without outright grudges against Northway, not a one would risk their life to aid him.

“When Mr. Staven came back with the guards, they could not find any trace of him,” Alice concluded. “There are a few guards out searching, but everyone thinks that he must already be dead. So you see, Emily, he will never trouble us – ”

“Where did this happen?” Emily ground out, overriding her younger sister.

“On our road, a few miles towards town.” It was Mary who answered, and Emily wasn't sure if she liked the unsettled yet knowing look in her eyes. “Emily, you cannot mean to…”

But she was already spinning and running out. “Grant, I need you!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She had taken her pistol out walking, as always, and she seized it now, checking that it was primed and loaded.

Grant met her just outside the door with his usual steady look and two horses, one with saddle and bridle and one without.

“They – they have taken Mr. Northway,” she told him, still trying to suck in air and speak at the same time, and realizing she had not the slightest idea who  _ they  _ were. “Close to Staven's place. I can't track them. He might –  he might be – ”

Grant nodded. “I'm with you.” He swung onto the horse with no saddle, already cantering off bareback as Emily mounted behind him, urging her horse after him.

As they rode, Emily wondered how they would manage to find Northway, when they did not even know the precise location of his ambush. She wondered if it had been random chance, a band of thieves on the road seeing a rich and unprotected target, or if the attack was more personal. There were many people who would have liked to see Northway suffer. For that matter, where had his guards been? Had they been distracted or delayed intentionally, or bribed?

More than anything, she wondered if she would find him, and whether or not it would be too late when she did.

Luck, or some other power, was with them. Mr. Staven stood on the side of the road, and a uniformed Denland guard was with him. She had not thought to count on help from  _ that  _ quarter. It was only because it would look bad to misplace a mayor-governor without putting in at least a cursory attempt at finding him, but she was glad of it regardless.

“I tell you it was right here,” the old man was insisting, with a none-too-friendly expression. It cleared a little as Emily and Grant arrived, even if her hurried scramble off her horse seemed to perplex him.

“Miss Marshwic,” he greeted. “Grant. Don't tell me they have you out looking for that miserable lout, too?”

“Is this where you saw him?” Emily asked. The short ride had given her time to pull herself together, and her breath was back along with her equilibrium.

The old man nodded. “Just there.” He pointed, and Grant went over immediately and began examining the grass. “Maybe you can tell this fellow to stop haranguing me and get to his work.”

Emily spared the both of them a glance. “Thank you,” she said to Staven, then nodded at the guard. “Are you on your own?”

The guard shook his head. “There are more out searching.”

“Good,” said Emily. The old familiar feeling of command was back, and she knew the guard would join her as she turned to Grant. “Any luck?”

Grant was still squinting at the ground. “Rain last night washed most of it away.” He gestured ahead of him. “This way.”

Emily followed Grant through the bracken, the Denlander guard falling in behind her. It was a cool, pale morning, and even as they went into deeper tree cover, the breeze was strong and sharp. It could not have been further from the fighting conditions she was accustomed to, and she was desperately glad of it. If she thought about that hellish landscape, she might not have been able to press herself forward. And she must press forward. She might be the only person in the entire country who truly cared about Northway, she reflected rather wryly. He needed her. She would find him. For the moment, the world had shrunk down to those two facts, and she followed Grant with clear purpose.

The sun was climbing into the sky, and Emily's heart was pounding ever louder, by the time Grant stopped and held up a hand for her to halt as well. They took shelter behind a tree, and she leaned out to assess the situation.

Five of them, she thought. No, there was a sixth sleeping there on the ground – Her breath stopped, just for a moment. The sixth was Mr. Northway, unmistakable in his ubiquitous black, and she could not tell from this distance if he was unconscious, or…

She recognized another man there, sitting on a fallen log. Griff. The other four she did not know. He had likely picked them up as accomplices in some other area before returning here. Perhaps he meant to take revenge on her and Northway, for ruining his glorious future with the king. Perhaps he meant to ransom him, or pretend to ransom him, to the Denlanders, who would likely pay just to avoid the conflict. Perhaps he only realized how very rich Northway was, and decided to rob a target with whom he was familiar.

Emily did not much care why, just now. Ignoring Grant's wide eyes at her movement, she drew up her pistol and stepped into the small clearing.

“Good morning,” she called, her voice as icy as she could make it. She let her eyes flick between Griff and the other four men, resolved not to look at Cristan until this was over lest she be distracted, though it took everything she had.

She addressed the men she had never seen before. “My name is Emily Marshwic. You may have heard of me.” She'd be damned if she wasn't going to get every last bit of ground from that bloody reputation of hers that she could. “I commanded the last garrison standing against Denland. I suggest you leave. Now.”

Several of them looked at her with wide, almost awed eyes, and were already backing away. Griff tried to mask the fear on his face with a greasy, placating smile, but it didn't succeed as well as he no doubt intended.

“Well, now, Miss Marshwic,” he began.

She shot him.

Not fatally, because she had no need to kill him. But she could not miss at this distance; the bullet went straight into his knee and he howled in pain, clutching at it and falling to the ground. Even she was a little unnerved by the cold smile that twisted her lips after.

The other four scattered into the brush. She waited until they were certainly gone, then turned to the Denlander guard, who was staring at her with eyes almost as frightened and awed as the thieves. She gestured to Griff, who lay groaning in the dirt. “Take care of him.” The guard nodded.

Then – finally – she allowed her gaze to turn to Cristan Northway. She was moving even as she fixed him with her eyes desperately, pleading for his chest to rise, for a limb to move. But he was still, and all of the colour she had coaxed into his face was gone when she fell to her knees beside him.

“Cristan,” she said, dropping her pistol beside her and reaching for him with both hands. She could see he was breathing, but faintly, so faintly. “Cristan.” She cupped his face, caressing in a way that she had not dared before now. Her thumb brushed over his lips, remembering the old maddening sneer, remembering the kisses behind the closed doors of his office – twice, only twice, when she had wanted so much more, and had thought they had all the time in the world. Right then, Emily did not care that Grant was standing there watching everything, or that the Denlander guard would have some pretty gossip to take back to his fellows, and it would all make its way back to Mary and Alice eventually. She wrapped his hand in hers and squeezed. “I am here, Cristan,” she murmured to him. “And I have need of you, so do not prove false to me now. Stay. Please.”

She looked over him, at the gashes and bruises on his face and neck. Just as bad or worse than the beating the king’s men had given him, it appeared, and Emily wondered if that sharp tongue of his had once again earned him a punishment. She looked closer, and saw a rusty, shiny stain on his black coat near his side. “Grant!” she called.

He was there before she could even finish backing away enough for him to lift Northway, slinging him across his shoulder.

“Where can we take him?” she wondered out loud. “Mr. Staven will not be likely to help.”

Grant spoke the thought she had already had, moving quickly back the way they had come. “Grammaine is closest.”

Emily gave him a grim smile of agreement, quickening her steps to follow him. Well, she had known it all must come to a head eventually.

 

Despite the mere handful of people who lived there, Grammaine now managed to bustle almost as loudly and chaotically as Gravenfield had. Most of the noise came from Alice, in fairness.

“We  _ cannot  _ give shelter to him,” she complained, as Mary sent Jenna for a doctor and Grant and Tubal did what they could in the realm of battlefield medicine for Northway. “Why can't Mr. Staven do it?”

“Because I do not trust him,” Emily said. “He does not like Mr. Northway, and I am not sure he was being entirely truthful about the story he gave.”

“No one likes Mr. Northway,” Alice pointed out, almost correctly. “Least of all us! Why, oh why did you have to go and rescue him, Emily?”

Emily did not answer. She wished she could be with Northway and Tubal and Grant. Grant had turned her away at the room they carried him into, with some muttering about how it wouldn't be proper, which had left her somewhat stunned until she realized it was for her sisters’ benefit. The real reason, she suspected, was that he knew she loved Cristan Northway, and if the worst should happen, he thought she would not want to witness it.

He was wrong, though. Emily wanted nothing more than to be there. To snatch whatever moments they had left, and to give whatever comfort she could. She had been denied that all too often on the battlefield. Elise, Marie, so many others. She would not have it denied her with Cristan, too.

But she could not say that to Grant, not with her sisters and everyone else watching her. So she was forced to stay with Mary and Alice, pretending all was well and normal when Northway might be dying in the next room. Her stomach roiled. Her palms sweated. Alice's voice seemed shrill and painful to her ears.

“I believe I know why Emily dashed off to save him,” Mary said quietly. When Emily turned to her sister, she could not fully read the expression in her eyes, but she saw enough to know that Mary had guessed the truth. Her heart sank.

“Will you deny it?” Mary challenged.

Emily swallowed, her eyes falling. She did not need to give Mary an answer; her reaction told all.

“Deny what?” Alice wanted to know.

“After Father?” Mary prompted, her quiet pain knifing more deeply into Emily than any other reaction could have.

“He did not kill our father,” Emily said sharply, but Mary was not finished.

“After Rodric? And those are not the only sins he is guilty of. You know it, Emily. After everything he has done, everything he has been, you would give your love to that – that – ” Words failed her.

Alice looked as if she had been clobbered about the head. “Love…? But – but Emily cannot be in love with Mr. Northway!”

Emily rounded on her younger sister. “Why not, Alice? Because he does not dress fashionably? Is he not dashing or handsome enough for you? Have you never stopped to consider that the world is darker and more complicated than you can possibly imagine? Life is not a romance, Alice! There are no brave heroes or cackling villains. Mr. Northway is a man, nothing more or less.”

Her eyes turned back to Mary. “He has done evil things. Some of which I know that he regrets deeply.”  _ Rodric,  _ she thought, still as painful as ever. “And he has done good things. He saved your life, Alice, in case you had forgotten. He kept Chalcaster from starving during the war. He kept you safe, while I was gone. He kept me sane.” This last tumbled out without conscious thought, and once it was out, she could not take it back.

Mary had gone white as a sheet. “What do you mean?”

“I… I wrote to him, from the front,” Emily admitted. She went slowly, trying to explain it in a way they would understand. “And he wrote to me. It began just as an offer to get a real message through, not that ridiculous propaganda we got from Rodric, but it… it became something else, Mary.”

Mary was quiet, for which she was grateful. Alice had been stunned into silence, which Emily was less grateful for, but at least it allowed her to speak.

“You have talked to Tubal. I do not know if he – if anyone, could fully explain what it was like. I could not speak of it to you, safe back here at Grammaine. Wasn't your safety, your innocence, what I was fighting for? But Northway…”

“He is not innocent,” Mary agreed, still with that unreadable expression.

“Yes. I could, I  _ can,  _ talk to him when there is no one else.”

Mary sighed. “I suppose I can understand why it would be… comforting to speak to such a man, during such a time. But to say you love him now, Emily, now that you have returned? What else can he possibly offer you? Is it mere gratitude?” She looked comforted by that thought.

“No,” Emily insisted. How could she explain? How could she tell her sisters that she loved Northway because he saw her for everything she was, darkness encompassed, and loved her desperately for it all. Because they were the same, in some way; because they had never lied to each other. Because, once she had gotten past the hollow smile and defensive shell, she  _ liked  _ him. Even before he became her confidante during the war, she had grown to enjoy their verbal sparring. She had been falling in love with him by degrees; perhaps even from the moment he had offered her his hand at Deerlings.

There was a small sound from behind her. Emily turned to see Tubal there, leaning on his crutch. Despite the gravity of the situation, she saw a little of his customary humor on his face. She supposed it  _ was  _ an awkward mess they had landed themselves in.

But more importantly, she saw nothing but kindness and acceptance. He had overheard, and while he might not take a side between her and his wife, he would not argue with her or judge her.

She would have liked to embrace him. Instead, she asked, “How is he?”

Tubal shrugged, but it was with a tired smile. “It depends, as you know, but… He should be all right, Emily. Hell, we all know what a stubborn bastard he is – pardon me – I expect him to make it, just to spite us all.” His eyes found Emily's with a twinkle of humor. “Well, perhaps all but you.”

She did embrace him then. “Thank you, Tubal,” she whispered in his ear. “For everything.”

He hugged her back before Emily pulled away.

“Can I see him?”

Tubal shook his head. “The doctor just arrived. Grant went to let him in through the other door, since you were all so dramatically occupied in here.”

Emily felt her cheeks getting a little hot.

“Do you really love him, Emily?” Alice asked, her voice wavering.

“Yes,” said Emily simply.

Then Alice did the only thing she could have expected Alice to do – she burst into tears and ran from the room.

“She'll come around,” Tubal commented. “Just wait, Em, in a week's time she'll be thinking you and Northway are the most romantic thing she's ever heard of.”

Emily wasn't quite as certain of that, but she offered a weak smile anyway.

Mary fixed her husband with a look that said  _ please remove yourself from this situation immediately,  _ and Tubal cheerfully turned and left the room. Emily and Mary were alone now.

Tubal might have been right about Alice. She was fickle, and she had picked up her lasting grudge against Northway from her older sisters. If they abandoned it, she might too.

But Mary… Mary was _ Emily's  _ older sister. She had been more like her mother for some years, after theirs died. Her opinion mattered, even if Emily knew there were some things she could never fully understand.

“I think I would like to hear more about the war,” Mary said carefully, after a brief pause.

Emily could not help a short bark of bitter laughter. “I am not certain you would.”

“Yes,” Mary said, and there was a flash of steel in her gaze that would have put a commanding officer to shame. “I would. And I would like you to… to tell me more about… yourself and Mr. Northway. How you see him. Perhaps, in time, I could understand.”

The words were clearly a struggle for her, and she had not promised anything, or even implied she might grow to approve. Cristan would be proud, Emily thought drily.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said, with real gratitude. “I know how much it costs you.”

“Do you?” In her face Emily caught a glimpse of Mary’s own struggles: the burden of the crumbling estate fallen on her shoulders far too young, far too soon after their father's death, and Northway blamed for all of it; trying so hard to keep their home alive even as everyone she loved went off to war, and she could not know if they would ever return to that home, or if she would eventually be left all alone in a ruined household, trying to scratch out a bare living so that she might die in peace. Emily's breath drew in, and she held her sister's gaze in wonder and sympathy, each seeing for perhaps the first time the bone-deep pain of the other.

Mary broke it first, taking a shaky breath and returning to her quiet self. “Perhaps. Only tell me this, Emily. Does he… Is he good to you?”

Emily thought of Mr. Northway asking her to dance before anyone else had. She thought of that sardonic smile, welcoming her to say whatever she wanted, and of the way he had told her he loved her, awkwardly and badly but sincere, always sincere. She thought of his frantic efforts to help her and her family during the war in the only way he knew how. He had nearly sacrificed everything to save Giles Scavian, simply because he thought she loved Scavian instead, and he had expected nothing in return. The gentle way he held her when the memories of the war had been too much for her, a cool, quiet port in a raging storm.

“Yes,” she whispered. “If you believe nothing else, Mary, believe that.”

Mary nodded slowly, dropping her arguments for the moment.

It was more than Emily had expected, more than she could have hoped for.

With time, she hoped it would be enough.

 

It was a chilly but clear morning when Northway was finally allowed to move about out of the house. The sun had not yet fully risen and burned the fog away, but rain had fallen last night and the air smelled fresh and new, and birds were chirping brightly. Emily took him out to the back lawn of Grammaine, and they sat together looking across the rolling countryside, watching the sun slant its rays slowly over the world.

“You have begun to make a habit of being abducted and beaten,” Emily said, breaking the silence.

He grimaced. “Unintentionally, I assure you. In fact I dare to hope this will be the last such occasion. Although it is gratifying to know that I have at least one champion among the people, Emily.”

She smiled back, and let the silence cover them again. This time it was comfortable, and she was content to simply sit and watch the countryside, feeling the breeze on her face and hearing his breath beside her.

At last, he said, “Well, we are here together, and the world has not ended.”

“Despite Alice's beliefs to the contrary.”

His lips twitched. “She fully screamed when she saw me this morning.”

“Yes, I heard,” she replied drily. “You must admit, you do not cut a very dashing figure at the moment, limping about all in black like some miserable spectre haunting the house…”

“I see my recent brush with death has not inclined you to a gentler opinion of me,” he said, but he was smiling at her, and warmth crept over her that had little to do with the sun.

“Cristan?”

“Yes?”

She held her hand out to him and he took it, pale fingers entwining with hers and holding on just as fast as she did.

Before she could speak, a snatch of conversation drifted out to them from the open kitchen window: Alice's voice, raised in complaint.

“Why, I imagine he would have to blackmail a priest to marry them!”

Emily met Cristan's eyes, gleaming with humor, and, holding tight to his hand as the sun emerged over the horizon, she started laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Assuming Lascanne dates are fairly analogous to our dates, I think I've made Emily and Northway dance the waltz several decades too early. But hey, it's an alternate world with warlocks and giant swamp spiders, so who knows what could be different?
> 
> (*keening softly* I really love Emily and Northway.)


End file.
